


all this and love too will ruin us

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Loneliness, M/M, Spanking, Unrequited Love, post hong-kong eprix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 10:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18247895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: He knows Tom is in Hobro only due to his social media earlier that day and it plays on André’s mind as the airport traffic thins out when he reaches the highway, the snow falling lightly again. Tom could have flown out already, could be anywhere in Europe by now, with anyone.- After the disaster of Hong Kong, Jev goes home to Paris and André decides to revisit the past.





	all this and love too will ruin us

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been struggling with writer's block for months and it's been a real effort to finish anything at all to a standard I'm happy with. Predictably, this wasn't what I intended to write but it just kind of happened. If you're reading this then I hope you find some enjoyment in it. :)  
> Thanks to zeraparker for pushing me to finish this and for all the advice, and to B for reading and encouraging.

He does it on a whim, sitting in the lounge at Heathrow looking up at all the cancellations on the board - one of them his own connection. Beside him, Jev is scrolling through his phone, the conversation between the two of them muted as it has been since they first boarded the flight in Hong Kong. It isn’t an uncomfortable silence, just both of them stuck in their own separate thoughts of the race. André would like to forget, to be able to regroup and look straight ahead but it isn’t easy this time. His anger has dissipated, leaving in its wake the ghost of feelings he can’t shake.

His mind keeps drifting back to Le Mans a couple of years ago. It isn’t the same, not even close either in disappointment or circumstance, but it’s in his head all the same. He wants Jev to hold him like Ben did back then, but Jev is preoccupied with his own misfortune and shitty season; he doesn’t need André when he has Lorene sending him photos of herself and Cheetah. André glances over at Jev’s phone, looks up in time to see him smile at the image of Charlie cuddling the Bengal. Something unpleasant twists in the depths of his stomach and he hates himself for a second, thinking of earlier after the debrief, when they got back to the hotel and Jev had pulled him into the shower and sucked him off, quick and not all that satisfying. It had been on the tip of his tongue then to ask Jev to come to Gordes with him, to try and get to the heart of what it is they’re doing and just make some demands, real demands rather than _just get on your fucking knees._ He’s never been one for talking about his emotions though, it always seems easier to show rather than speak. It’s a shame Jev seems to be so blind.

The Paris flight is cancelled due to bad weather in France, subsequent departures flashing up as delayed, no indication of how long the wait will be. Even the flight going to Avignon is postponed enough to make him forget the idea of going straight to Gordes for a couple of days and flying in and out for their sim sessions. The plan had been to go back to Jev’s, to stay and let the jetlag unravel together, to spend some time. It makes his skin itch even thinking about it, being around Jev’s new-found family, seeing them soothe him in a way André can’t. He wishes he’d never agreed to it and as he glances up at the departures board a flight to Aalborg due to leave in an hour catches his eye, the seed of an idea growing like flowers in the dirt. He sighs, checking his Instagram again just to make sure, not bold enough right now to send a text in case the response is thick with sarcasm and humiliation.

Changing his flight was easy enough. Easier than the look on Jev’s face at the revelation of what he was doing. André had been too tired to make excuses, to come up with something suitably placating. If Jev got to go home to someone then why the fuck couldn’t he? Jev’s eyes had been sharp with hurt and curiosity, but in the end he’d just gone back to checking his emails, probably preferring the ignorance than wanting to ask what the deal was. Just as well, given André isn’t even sure he can put it into words.

It’s obvious that Seefeld would be the better choice right now, that Helmut would work him in the gym and make him talk over dinner afterwards, would take him skiing as if that could ease the tension out of him. Maybe he’d even make love to André as desperately slowly as they have once or twice in the past, André pressed into the sheets with his eyes screwed shut, not knowing how to communicate that he doesn’t want to be treated with such reverence, that he wants to hurt.

The flight begins to taxi along the runway, André glancing down at his phone and thumbing through some more photos of the team from the race weekend before switching on the flight mode, pausing on one of Jev leaning against him, their thighs touching in that comfortable way they’ve fallen into. There’s so much he wants to say to Jean-Éric, things he’s told no one - almost no one, if hinting at it vaguely to his mum counts. For a horrible moment just as the wheels lift from the ground, he realises he could have gone home to Nivelles to see her instead.

 

Night has fallen by the time he steps out of the airport in Aalborg, snow crunchy underfoot and the keys to a rental jangling in his hand. He finds the Audi easy enough in the quiet carpark, resting his head on the steering wheel a moment after he’s typed in the location to the GPS. On the flight he’d been tempted to get a taxi instead, to have a couple of drinks to calm his nerves, but the thought of being turned away and having to stand outside in the street waiting for a cab to take him back to the airport again was too much of a deterrent, as much as he feels the need to drown his sorrows.

He knows Tom is in Hobro only due to his social media earlier that day and it plays on André’s mind as the airport traffic thins out when he reaches the highway, the snow falling lightly again. Tom could have flown out already, could be anywhere in Europe by now, with anyone. It dawns on him that Tom’s family are probably there, in the house André has only been to once or twice, isn’t even sure he remembers the address properly.

As it turns out, he does know the address just fine, parks up around the corner with the window down, shivering a little as he smokes a cigarette and then lights another immediately after. Most of the clothes he has with him are appropriate for Hong Kong, passable for Western Europe during early spring but certainly not suitable for Scandinavia, this far north still clinging on to winter. He looks out at the streets, the ethereal glow of the streetlights casting shadows down onto the snow. Did Jev manage to get a flight out to Paris, he wonders. Is he with Lorene and Charlie now, eating dinner in their apartment? He wants to ask Jev if she knows about them, types the question into his phone and stares at the words for a moment before deleting them, looking up at the warmth of the lights shining out from the house beyond the elegant iron gates. This wasn’t part of the plan when he made the choice to leave Tokyo - what little plan there had been. It wasn’t about running to or from anything, more making the choice to grow up, to find just a little of what most of his friends have already and not let it spook him. Temptation is easier to sleep off when he’s halfway around the globe, though. Not as simple when it’s just a couple of hours flight. The cold sends another quiver through him and he flicks the cigarette butt out into the snow defiantly.

“Well this is unexpected.” Tom grins at him, bemused, making André feel more than a little foolish as he hovers on the doorstep. It occurs to him how much he needs a wash, the grime of long-haul feeling thick on his skin, no matter how luxurious the airlines. He doesn’t even bother coming up with an excuse. _Just passing by_ would sound more ridiculous than not saying anything at all. It’s obvious why he’s here and Tom knows it, André realises as he looks into Tom’s eyes darkly, wondering if he could get away with just shoving him against the wall and kissing him right here, ignoring every unspoken rule and those that have been deeply instilled in him too.

“It’s been a while,” André says softly -  too much warmth, he knows, fondness seeping through his voice where none should be.

“Come in. We’ve just had dinner, Hanne was about to make coffee. You really look like shit.”

André looks him up and down, taking in the way he leans against the door frame, his gaze sweeping over the length of André’s body. Tom has always looked at him like this, right from the very beginning when they were strangers, André with everything to prove and desperate to please the man who had become his idol. He has nothing left to prove now, their playing field if not entirely level then certainly on the same plateau. Something about the older driver makes him feel like a rookie again, a little needy and unsure. It is thrilling and terrifying at the same time; there’s no one else who can do that to him and perhaps that’s why he always comes back, even when he’s told himself he’s had enough. _He’s not good for you, bro_. James isn’t here to say that this time.

“Fuck, I don’t--” André starts. In the background he can hear the voices of the children, warmth radiating out from the sleek wooden structure of the bungalow, thawing the snow on the steps. He knows he can’t go in, not now when he feels so strung out and helpless, can’t sit in Tom’s study surrounded by his trophies and make small talk with Hanne when all he really needs is for the rough touch of Tom’s hands on him, bringing the hurt to the surface and smoothing it away. His nerve is wavering, the curve of Tom’s lips is almost mocking and that isn’t the brand of cruelty he wants. He gathers himself, stands up a little bit straighter just for the height advantage he has over the Dane.

“Come with me?” André shifts from one foot to the other, looking over at the small circles in the snow where a few hardy shoots are trying to push through in search of light, sure to be killed off by the frosts. He feels touch-starved, even the way Jev’s hands had traced over his body just hours before nothing like enough. It had felt like going through the motions, a mindless orgasm before Jev could get home to the real comfort of Lorene’s arms.

For a second André thinks Tom will decline the request, close the door in his face or worse, usher him in and have him sit and play with the kids. For an awful moment he’s reminded of his own naivety of years back, when he’d thought there was a possibility he might actually be chosen above all this. Loïc had set him right on that one. _It doesn’t work like that_ he’d said. And André didn’t know how it worked then, just that he wanted to keep winning, remain in favour.

The minutes tick by slowly in the car, waiting for Tom to lay out whatever excuse he needs to make - or doesn’t. André is clueless on that one, remembering now years ago and something he can’t quite recall about an open marriage, a gleam in Tom’s eyes as he spoke. He fights the urge to smoke another cigarette as he glances over at the house; it isn’t quite a habit, more of an occasional indulgence he’s picked up from Jev. The taste always reminds him of his teammate’s mouth now, maybe that’s why it appeals so much.

They’re halfway back to the town when Tom turns to look at André, resting his hand possessively on his thigh and asking which hotel he’s staying at, André’s thoughts halting as he realises he hadn’t even got that far.

“Which do you recommend?” he answers, a half-smile gracing his lips. The cards aren’t his here and it’s easier to let go and admit it than to try and pretend he has any control over the situation.

Tom laughs, his fingers finding the seam of André’s jeans, skimming higher. “I do miss you, André,” he says, enough fondness in his voice for André to give in and believe him.

He follows Tom’s directions, only glancing sideways at him when they’ve driven the length of the main street of Hobro and out the other side, houses thinning away, swallowed up by the flat of the land. This is all about more than losing the race so cruelly, the need to put his fist through a wall or clock it against Bird’s jaw now having dissipated with the hours of travel that feel like days, a week. The sensation of winning feels so far away and he no longer has anything to replace it with like he used to. Once upon a time it had been enough to go out partying with James, to drink too much saké and get each other off in their apartment as the sun came up. What if he’d just gone to Japan, he thinks, parsing his lips at the anticipation of James’ disapproval.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask where they’re going, only the knowledge he wouldn’t get a real answer keeps him from it. They drive for about half an hour, Tom’s hand inside André’s jeans resting against his half-hard cock for most of it after having unbuckled his belt as soon as they left signs of life behind. André shifts slightly against the touch, feeling himself getting properly hard the longer Tom keeps his hand there, a damp spot spreading over the cotton of his underwear.

“Still as needy as ever,” Tom says conversationally, lifting the waistband to rub his thumb over the slit of his cock, making André hiss before bringing his hand up to his lips. He pushes his thumb into André’s mouth, urging his jaw open wider. André complies, watching the road, still alert even with the throb of tiredness that he can feel in his bones. This is it, he thinks as Tom’s hand cups him again, this is what he needs.

Eventually the landscape shifts, trees springing up on either side of the highway. Tom directs them down a turning, the foliage becoming denser still until they pull up beside a series of connected buildings next to the shore, the dark waters of the Fjord lapping quietly against the land.

“Our summer house. I come here for rowing,” Tom tells him when he’s let them in to the house, in response to André’s questioning look. “It’s a good place for it.”

André wonders if he comes here for anything else, _with_ anyone else other than his family, but it isn’t his place to ask and if he’s honest he would rather not know. It’s a simple enough construction, typical Danish style but with a contemporary edge that André appreciates, a cluster of vaulted-ceilinged buildings connected together, all wooden floors and whitewashed walls. He leaves his suitcase in the hallway, following Tom through into the main living area, warm light from the lamp he flicks on flooding the room.

Now they’re alone outside of the confines of the car André’s nerves have sharpened. He longs for Tom’s hands on him again, for the touch he craves. He sips at the whiskey Tom pours for them both far too quickly, the fiery heat making him cough, face flushing red at the sensation of being so amateurish - even though he’s not, not with anyone else.

“I take it you’re here because you had a bad race this weekend, then?”

André takes a step towards where Tom is leaning back against the counter watching him. He’s seen Tom’s likes on a couple of the Techeetah Instagram posts after the race. It gives him a vicious little thrill that he would try and tease it out when he already knows the result, try and make André say it rather than offer some sympathetic words and a shoulder to cry on the way some people would - Helmut, maybe even James.

He grits his teeth. “It was great,” he says, flatly. “You should have been there.”

Tom laughs, heat in his eyes as he watches André knocks back the whiskey and leans past him to place the glass down on the counter. He catches hold of André’s wrist with such a quick movement that the tumbler wobbles, almost tipping to the floor. “I could have closed the door in your face, do you understand,” Tom says sternly. His voice is even but firm, his eyes burning into André’s before he pulls him close, tugging at André’s bottom lip with his teeth before kissing him hard. His mouth is warm and familiar, the earthy tang of the whiskey stinging the cracks in André’s lips, dry from cabin pressure and the lack of water he forgot to drink. They so rarely kiss that he wants to savour it in case the opportunity never presents again, and so he sinks into it, to the harsh press of Tom’s mouth against his, the demanding way in which he kisses. It’s thrilling to be touched by him - André has never really recovered from the feeling even after all this time. He forgets himself for a moment, tries to deepen it only to feel the press of Tom’s hand on his chest, pushing him back as he breaks the kiss. “Still as desperate as you always were, hey.” Tom wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking almost bored at André’s predictability.

“Only for you.” André’s voice wavers, but it’s the truth. He would never let anyone else see him like this, isn’t sure why he lets Tom, why it still matters all this time later. His face pales at the memory of the time they had, the time Tom had wanted to show him off. The ache of humiliation is dim now but unforgettable. He’d stayed away for a while after that. André glances over Tom’s shoulder, gazes blankly at the smooth grain of the wooden walls, honey tones of the lights on them, caught in his memories for a moment.

Tom flicks his cheek lightly to get his attention back, rubbing his thumb over André’s lips before pushing two fingers into his mouth, holding them there in an echo of the car journey out here. “Did I ever tell you, you have a very pretty mouth,” he smiles, his tone light, conversational. The praise in his voice melts through everything else and André gets the hint easily enough when Tom places both hands on his shoulders. He doesn’t even push, just waits and watches to see if André will get the hint, sighing happily when he does.

 

Tom hasn’t bothered with underwear, André finds when he slides to his knees, palms sweaty on the coarse denim of the other man’s jeans as he pulls them down his thighs, pressing his face against his flaccid dick. He’d wanted rather than expected Tom to be hard, has enough self-belief to know it isn’t because Tom is not attracted to him. Every step is always a point for André to earn, a task to be completed to Tom’s satisfaction; he learned early on that sex is no different, Tom’s bored instruction of _get me hard_ is soothing rather than an insult. He knows _this_ , his mind helpfully supplies as he lets Tom’s cock rest on his tongue for a moment, feeling him start to fill out. This isn’t something that can crash away from him and he closes his eyes, sliding his hands around Tom’s thighs and gripping his ass, losing himself to the feel of silken skin on his tongue and the pull of hands in his hair.

André relaxes into it, everything else paling in comparison to the soft words of praise he’s able to draw from Tom, the sharp intake of breath when André takes him as deep as he can. His nose brushes Tom’s pubic hair, saliva wet on his chin as he feels himself get a little light headed, a little further away from everything. Tom’s hands are fisted hard in his hair, movements rough as he slides them down to grip André’s jaw, controlling his movements like he’s a ragdoll. André’s cock throbs at the musky taste of Tom’s precome on his tongue, the heat that radiates from his body. He wants to drown in it, in him, to let go of all the thoughts that would have him restless and pacing the empty of corridors of the Gordes house right now. He pulls back enough to wrap one hand around the base of Tom’s erection, trying to catch his breath as he tongues at the fluid leaking from the tip, pleased at the bitten off moan that awards him. André shudders, his cock throbbing with the validation.

Tom’s thighs tighten when André rubs his thumb over the sensitive underside of his dick just below the crown and he bats André away from him, gripping the base of his dick tightly and rubbing it against André’s cheek, smearing precome over his face. He gazes up the length of Tom’s body, fighting the feeling that he’s done something wrong, he’s fucked it up yet again.

“You’re such a slut for it, hmm.”

André hates himself for agreeing, but he knows Tom can see through any protest he might make anyway. “You can keep going or I can fuck you. I think that’s why you came here, yes?”

 _I can make you come,_ André thinks. _I can make you come and you can fuck me later, tomorrow. I can stay_. The words don’t make it out of his mouth. There’s never been a _later_ before.

“Yes,” he murmurs, gazing up the length of Tom’s body. The lack of control is terrifying but it’s thrilling in a way that’s different from any other situation. “Please.”

Tom’s eyes are dark with arousal but there’s a look of boredom schooled on his face. André lowers his face again, resting his face against Tom’s thigh, waiting.

“Please what? Come on, it shouldn’t be so hard for you to ask for what you want.”

André opens his mouth to speak, but he’s gagging on Tom’s cock before he can say a word, taken by surprise. Tom holds him in place by his hair until he begins to struggle, coughing as he tries to get his breath back, falling forward a little. His head is spinning.

“Fuck you,” André mutters between breaths. He didn’t come here to be humiliated, to be made to beg.

“For that, you can get yourself ready for me,” Tom says dismissively, nudging past André and kicking off his jeans, stripping off the soft woollen jumper he’s wearing too and peeling off his socks, placing them neatly on the arm of the sofa. André watches him, unmoving from his position on the floor as he hears Tom’s footsteps retreating and then growing closer again. He wonders what it would take to get Tom to hold him after, if there’s anything at all.

He lets himself watch for a moment as Tom places his clothes on the sofa and checks his phone with a smile, so self-assured. He’s still in incredibly good shape, no discernible changes to his body since they were last together, still muscular and fit even despite the efforts of aging to loosen his skin. His cock is still hard, flush against his stomach and André’s mind reels at the thought of being filled up with it. If Tom really forced him to beg he’d do it, he realises.

“I don’t have all night,” Tom says, looking over expectantly as he leaves the room.

André gets to his feet slowly, rubbing his aching knees, stripping out of the clothes he’s been wearing for nearly 48 hours and following Tom past various monochrome family photographs on the wall and through into one of the other annexes, a bedroom decorated in muted greys and whites. Tom is sprawled out in the wing-backed leather armchair in the corner, one ankle crossed over his other thigh, unashamedly on display as he hands André a bottle of lube and tells him to get on the bed.

It’s easy like this, easy not to think, to just do as he’s told safe in the knowledge that he’ll get what he wants eventually, letting himself sink into exhibitionism as he pumps some of the lube out onto his fingers and reaches behind himself to rub his fingers over his hole.

Tom has brought the bottle of Talisker with him, pouring himself another glass and sipping slowly at it as he watches André kneeling on the mattress, the scrutiny going straight to his dick. André takes a deep breath, forcing himself to look away and concentrate on relaxing his body enough to finger himself the way he knows he’s capable of. He’s so tense though and even getting the tip of one finger into himself is an effort. It’s easier if he closes his eyes, shuts out the intensity of Tom’s gaze and lets everything fall away. He pours some more lube over his fingers, careful not to drip any onto the soft luxury of the sheets, rubbing over the ring of muscle again before pushing in a little further this time, his body giving way.

 _Jev_ , he thinks, swallowing the name before he can say it. The sex he’s had with his teammate has never got this far: nothing more than occasional handjobs and blowjobs, making out like teenagers. Jev has never let André inside his body and André has never offered up himself either, unsure if Jean-Éric would see too much in the suggestion. He imagines Jev’s fingers touching him now, gasping as the slide becomes easier, hissing as he fucks a second finger into himself. He arches his back, curling his fingers and rocking his hips, suppressing a moan. How would it feel, he wonders, his skin prickling all over. His cock jolts, leaking against his stomach. It’s too much temptation and he can’t help but give himself a stroke, letting go the grip he has on his arse cheek where he’s holding himself open and reaching to close his fist around his cock. He hears Tom tsk, opening his eyes at the creak of the older driver getting up from the armchair and the sudden sting of knuckles against his wrist.

“Leave your dick alone,” Tom chastises, twisting André’s arm behind his back slightly and using the grip as leverage, leaning to bite at his neck, a sharp pain that André longs to feel again the moment Tom withdraws. “I said get yourself ready, not get yourself off.”

André shivers, tempted to ignore him just so he gets to feel Tom biting at his flesh again. He wants to, is about to stroke himself again but then Tom is moving behind him, pushing him forward so he’s on his hands and knees on the bed, sliding his fingers up André’s chest to twist at his nipples and making him cry out.

Tom’s dirty talk stings but the rough touch of his hands makes André want to give up everything, almost sobbing by the time Tom spreads his arse cheeks, thumbs pushing at his hole. André moans, canting forward and pressing his head against his forearms with a shudder when he feels the warm wetness of Tom spitting onto his crack, fingers calloused from years of racing and cycling rubbing the saliva into him, pushing inside him roughly. He loses himself in the sensation, the burn of Tom scissoring him open, wriggling his hips in desperation to make him brush over his prostate. Tom ignores his pleas, fucking him hard with his fingers and stopping anytime André’s moans start to heighten, an endless tease that has him clutching at the sheets.

A sob escapes his mouth at the first slap of Tom’s palm against his arse cheek, almost falling as he’s caught between wanting to wriggle away and sink back into the heat of the touch. Tom serves him up more blows, too many for André to count, before repeating the action on his other cheek, kneading and soothing the flesh in between spanking him, the blossoming pain taking precedence over everything else. André’s whole body feels on fire, it becomes too much effort to hold himself up and he slumps forwards onto the pillows, his mind flying away as everything narrows down to the sensation of Tom’s hands on him, raw and tender and everything he longed for when he changed his flights. His cock is drooling precome onto the embroidered sheets and he wishes he could have this, here with Tom, wishes he could have this all the time.

When the touch withdraws André tries to twist around, tries to ask him to keep going even though the look on Tom’s face tells André he won’t. “You’ve had enough,” Tom tells him sternly, and André wants to protest that he hasn’t, he can take it, he can still win races.

The words stall on his lips when he hears the tearing of foil, followed by the head of Tom’s cock pressing against his hole. His hands are still fisted in the sheets and he pushes his face into them, biting at the soft cotton as Tom inches slowly inside him. It feels like so much, so intense, the burn and friction of Tom filling him after so long, Tom’s hands bruisingly tight against his hips. He fucks just how André remembers, rough and so very masculine, as if he makes love to Hanne so sweetly and saves all this up just for André. Just for André and all the others.

André takes it, letting Tom dictate the pace, fucking him deep and unrelenting, hard enough that he’ll feel sore all over tomorrow. He’ll strip and lie in the huge copper bathtub in his bedroom in Gordes until the water is tepid and he’s counted every single mark on his body, until he’s photographed them all and hid the roll of empty film at the back of a drawer ready to be developed when he’s finished installing the darkroom, along with all the other images too personal to take in to any studio.

It’s been days since he felt like he had any control over himself and when Tom leans forward, curling over his back and tugging him up to his hands and knees properly again, he can feel the rush of his orgasm building. The sudden change in angle drags the head of Tom’s cock over André’s prostate with every thrust and he has to fight to not try and grind down against the bed. Tom’s hands are beside his on the bed, his thumb brushing the inside of André’s wrist with such uncharacteristic tenderness it’s almost too much to bear, a direct counterpart to the way he’s fucking into his ass.

“You can come,” Tom grunts in his ear, slipping his arm around André’s waist and wrapping a hand around his cock firmly, jerking him hard and fast. It’s too soon, André’s brain protests, flying forward to Gordes, to Paris, the sim, Jean-Éric. He wants to stay here with Tom a while, wants to be tied up and lavished with attention, to feel and not think, to not get on another fucking airplane.

He can feel his body tightening, shivers at the obscene wet sounds of Tom jerking him, fucking up into him over and over, until he’s moaning and twisting in his arms. His toes curl, his elbows giving way on him again as he comes hard into Tom’s hand, everything fading away as the pleasure rocks through his body, waves of spunk soiling the sheets as he collapses onto the bed held up only by Tom’s hands on his hips. He hears Tom groan deeply behind him, holding himself still as he comes, André gasping anew at the heat of Tom’s come pulsing into the condom. There’s a split second where everything seems to stop, dimming to only the haze of his release and the soreness of his skin, the rest of the world seeming so insignificant compared to this feeling. Then Tom is pulling out of him, running damp hands over André’s reddened arse cheeks and saying something about how he should put some cream on them.

André wipes his eyes on a corner of the pillow, stretching out fully and pulling the duvet around himself even with the damp stickiness of his come coating it. He wants to get into bed properly but it seems too presumptuous, too much like something a lover would do. They aren’t lovers, at least André doesn’t think Tom sees them that way.

“You want to talk about it now?”

André glances up. Tom has put a robe on, the pale blue of the fleecy material catches his eyes beautifully and André thinks for a moment what it might be like to have something real, with Tom...with anyone. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“I don’t think I need to explain myself, do I?” he says, rolling onto his side facing away from Tom, looking out at the darkness visible through the slats in the blinds. They’re open enough that anyone could see in, could have seen him stripped down to his most vulnerable. He takes a shuddering breath, flinching when the bed dips and Tom’s fingers wind gently through his hair, almost petting him. The last thing André wants to talk about is the race but then again, he isn’t even sure that’s what Tom is referring to anyway.

“No, I guess you don’t. Your teammate was busy today, hmm,” Tom says, so casually and measured that André can almost hear the smirk he’s sure is on his lips, thankful his face is turned away so Tom can’t see his mouth tremble.

“He has a girlfriend,” André mutters, the word harder to say than it ever used to be. He’s had to say it enough times in the past, with Loïc, a couple of others.

“I know, I met her in St Petersburg at the FIA Gala. Very beautiful. Almost as pretty as you, I think. She suits him.”

It isn’t something André needed anyone to tell him, least of all Tom. If he’s winning it doesn’t matter that Jev seems to fall in love with a new model every few months, or that Tom is here with his perfect picture postcard little family. If he’s winning there aren’t so many empty spaces to fill in, his name on a trophy something more tangible than late-night empty promises in hotel rooms around the world. He feels too raw for Tom’s teasing, whether light or not, dismissing the needling with a simple _yeah_. It isn’t like Tom’s lying - André has seen the way Jean-Éric is with Lorene.

“Still,” Tom muses, stroking his hand down André’s bicep, “I don’t see why a girlfriend would stop you. It never did before.”

It’s different this time, he’s older now and it matters more - he can’t quite vocalise why but it does. Yet he knows Tom doesn’t really want to know the answer, that he gets his kicks as much from seeing André squirm as he does from fucking him. He shuts his eyes, shifting so the covers press against the sore skin of his ass, wishing he’d taken more. Tom doesn’t normally touch him afterwards, not like this, and he isn’t sure if he likes it or if it makes him despise himself. He finds himself leaning in to it though, as Tom presses his thumbs against all the marks he’s made on André’s neck, his hips, exhaustion softening his limbs until he feels himself drifting towards sleep.

André isn’t sure how much time passes before Tom’s hands leave his body, his voice cutting business-like through the silence. He finds he’s been maneuvered into bed properly, a bottle of water slick with condensation placed on the bedside table along with his phone. When he squints, rubbing his eyes, he finds Tom fully dressed in the jeans and cashmere sweater he’d had on earlier, standing over him.

“I’ve called a car to take me home and there’s a spare set of keys by the door. You can let yourself out and lock up in the morning,” he says, shrugging his coat on. André’s heart lurches, suddenly fully awake even as his heart thrums with the weird energy of being woken suddenly and not knowing what’s happening.

“You’re leaving right now?” The words jump out of his mouth and he instantly hates himself for the desperation in his tone, _stay the night on his tongue_. He wants to say it, wants to beg for it, for Tom to climb into bed and hold him until he’s asleep, fuck him again in the morning. He just about manages to get enough control of himself not to ask.

“I have to get back to Hanne. Maybe you could give me some warning next time instead of showing up announced.” Tom leans over him, slipping his fingers under André’s chin and tilting his head for a bruising kiss, a habit André wants him to form.

“Tom,” André begins when the other man is at the door. _Thank you_ , he thinks. _Please stay. Please_.

The sound of a car engine idling outside cuts through his thoughts.

Tom turns away. “It was nice to see you, André,” he says as if they’ve had a nice lunch together, a catch up and a reminisce about the old days.

The front door closes, the noise of the car recedes, the only sound in the cabin is the faint crackle of the fire through in the living area, Tom evidently having set it going while André slept. André turns onto his back, reaching for his phone and squinting at the time, cursing at the realisation it’s after 3am, that he must have slept for a good hour or two. There’s a missed call and a text from Bird that he doesn’t want to read just yet, if ever. Forgiveness has always been a difficult concept.

When he stretches out between the sheets his whole body throbs with the pleasurable ache of a good fucking, yet his mind still refuses to stop dragging him through a maze from which there’s no escape. If Jev is too young, too caught up in the prime of his career with his image snapped up by brands and his eye caught by beautiful models, then is Tom too old? Old or old-fashioned, always the one doing the fucking because somehow it means something different that way. He’d said as much to André once, some other time (he’s lost count of the times). If James had asked André to not to leave Tokyo, would he have? It’s come up in his thoughts once or twice. If they’d laid their cards on the table and said _let’s try._ The two of them don’t fit in that box, though. André loves James like the brother he never had, loves to hang out with him and have sex so kinky it would make Jev blush, and it’s never awkward in the morning. Never awkward because it’s nothing more than a series of moments free from longing, it’s something to do when they’re tired of everything else a city has to offer, passing the time. James gives André praise and Jev yearns for affirmation from him. Tom gives him morsels and it makes the want a little bit sharper, keeps him coming back in the hope that one day he’ll gather enough scraps to scramble together something whole. He knows it won’t happen, probably not with any of them.

He reads Sam’s text and knows there’s no chance in hell he’s going to reply. He knows Jev would say he should, but all he can do is let the screen fade, pressing the wake button again to display the lock screen. A photo of himself and Jev lights the shiny screen, a free day they’d had on first arriving in Santiago a few weeks before. André remembers handing his phone to Carl to take it, Jean-Éric pressed tightly against his side, the heat of his skin like fire, the material of his t-shirt soft. He stares at the image for a long moment until the screen goes black, groaning in frustration with everything, with himself, before throwing his iPhone over onto the chair.

He feels filthy, in desperate need of a shower, but his eyelids still feel heavy and he doesn’t want to wash Tom off his skin so soon. It’s too tempting to revel in it for a little longer, to pretend it’s 2010 again and he’s still young enough and new enough to not know any better.

  
  



End file.
